


on a sunday night

by quietlyintoemptyspaces



Series: Jungle Love [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anonymous Sex, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Facials, Knotting, M/M, Porn, Underage Drinking, Unhappy Ending, but not the kind you're thinking, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:56:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietlyintoemptyspaces/pseuds/quietlyintoemptyspaces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And sure enough, at the very end of the bar, there stands some kind of freaking god in a leather jacket and a five o’clock shadow and burning eyes. On Stiles. So Stiles does what he does best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on a sunday night

**Author's Note:**

> Some of this might seem a bit dub-con, and it's not meant to be. Everything is very much consensual. 
> 
> Please excuse any mistakes. Apparently I fail in sleep and it affects my grammar and spelling.

Jungle, Stiles decides, is only mildly crowded. For a Sunday, at least. Not that Stiles knows what Jungle usually looks like on Sundays. No. Friday nights, on the other hand, he knows very well are crowded, bodies pressed flush on both the dance floor and at the bar. It’s why he usually sticks to Fridays, because he likes the feel of it, strangers and friends touching, almost uncomfortably close. Luckily Scott’s used to it, friends since they were twelve, so he knows how tactile Stiles is.

Danny had learned at the end of junior year, when they’d met up at Jungle one weekend and Scott hadn’t been able to make it. Jackson had been Danny’s ride, and after too much to drink, he’d been Stiles’ too. Nothing sexual had happened, but Jackson, because he’s Jackson, had gotten some great videos of Stiles at his worst. He’d actually tried to kiss Jackson. Thankfully he didn’t remember that, because that was nightmare material right there.

So this Sunday Stiles can move freely across the dance floor and back to the bar to stand by Scott, steal the last of his drink. More importantly, the cherry at the bottom, hiding in the melting ice.

“Dude,” Scott gripes at him, frowning as he snatches back the glass, staring forlornly into the bottom of it. “That was mine.”

Stiles smiles around the red maraschino, stem sticking out between his teeth. “Dude,” he gripes back. “It was a Shirley Temple. Order another. Extra cherries.”

Scott returns with one of his quips, something Stiles usually laughs at, but there are eyes on him. He knows that feeling, the heat at the back of his neck, the urge to preen under the attention. It’s one of those stares, the kind that makes him wonder what he was thinking when he decided to wear the tight red jeans that both Allison and Lydia agree put the ass in fantastic.

And sure enough, at the very end of the bar, there stands some kind of freaking god in a leather jacket and a five o’clock shadow and burning eyes. On Stiles. So Stiles does what he does best.

Teasingly slow, he pulls the cherry further into his mouth, makes sure to flash his tongue, and then less than a minute later there’s a knot in the stem. When he grins, it’s pressed between his teeth and Scott is rolling his eyes because obviously he saw the show. Has seen it a hundred times. But the guy at the end of the bar is gone. Which sucks, because Stiles had been sure that would work. His mouth is skilled.

Nonetheless, Stiles steals another cherry from Scott’s drink – “Hey! Get your own!” – and returns to the dance floor. He’s there for a good half hour before he goes back to Scott. Danny’s there too, so Stiles leans in between them and steals a cherry from both with a cheeky grin. He orders his own drink, a Shirley Temple because he likes the taste, and because the bartender tonight actually knows him, so fake ID or not, he’s not getting any alcohol tonight.

The bathroom is empty. Surprising, since most of the time Stiles comes in here there are at least three couples taking up the stalls and another one or two against the far wall. At least he can piss in peace then. Only, as soon as he’s ready to tuck himself back in, there’s a brick wall of heat behind him, one large hand on his wrist stopping him. 

Stiles turns his head to the mirrors. He knows how he looks, cheeks flushed from dancing, lips stained with maraschino juice, but he’s not exactly expecting the guy in the leather jacket pressed against his back. But now it’s hard not to. Ha, hard, he’s so funny sometimes.

Leather coat guy notices too, because there’s stubble against the side of his neck now and a curling mouth. The thick fingers still on Stiles’ wrist twitch, like they’re asking permission, and Stiles freely gives it, leans back and throws his head back at the first touch.

“You have a talented tongue,” is whispered into his ear with a light squeeze at the base of his dick. It makes Stiles gasp.

“Yeah. All the teachers I’ve had would disagree with you on that.” A growl resonates and rumbles through Stiles’ chest, an echo from leather coat guy, and isn’t that hot. “Not like that, obviously. I just mean that I talk a lot. Even when – Nnnn!”

There’s going to be a big bruise on his neck from where this guy’s teeth just dug in, not that he minds. “I can think of ways to shut you up.” It’s said with a thrust of his hips against Stiles’, and there’s a hardness there, thick and long and Stiles really wants it.

“Oh, god, can I?” 

Stiles is already pulling away, half turned and pushing the guy back into a stall and slamming the lock into place behind him. “Stiles,” he says quickly, dropping to his knees. They’re probably going to be purple tomorrow, but he couldn’t care less right now; his hands go for the guys jeans, tears open the button and pulls down the zipper and – he goes commando. “God, that’s so hot.”

“Derek,” the other guy says, fingers in Stiles short hair pulling him closer. “Been watching you.” 

Stiles doesn’t care. He licks the underside of Derek’s dick, drags his tongue along the thick vein, and then sucks the head into his mouth. Derek fucking keens and thrusts forward. The movement chokes Stiles, forcing Derek’s dick too far back; when he pulls back, pulls out, Stiles coughs at the irritation in his throat and looks up through his lashes at the face above him, focuses on the parted lips and the heavy panting and dives right back down. 

This time he does better, digs his fingers into Derek’s hips and tries to hold him to the wall. Derek’s fingers card through his hair, presses him forward and down and mutters filthy things Stiles is pretty sure he’s not supposed to be hearing. His voice is low, hips twitching, thighs tense and still trapped in tight black jeans.

Stiles slides his hands upwards, beneath Derek’s shirt, fingers finding the grooves of muscle, feels the light sheen of sweat, finds the little nub of a nipple. Derek’s breath hitches and he thrusts forward again, but this time Stiles is ready, opens his throat and lets Derek fuck into his mouth for a moment before he moves back, tongue still tracing patterns on spit-slick skin.

“Fuck,” Derek curses, moves his fingers down to slide against Stiles’ lips; they’re swollen, still red from the cherries, and still wrapped around the head of his dick. “How are you so good at this?”

Stiles smiles and lets his tongue play a little before pulling off with a wet, messy kiss; he’s pretty sure Derek doesn’t want to know about the others, few though they may be, so he settles for something a little more tame. Well, more or less. “I watch a lot of porn.” Stiles pauses a moment to lick up the trail of Derek’s essence beading up from his slit, rubbing the head of Derek’s dick against his lips like he’s putting on lipstick. He makes sure Derek is watching him closely when he says the next part. “And I practice on myself.”

It takes a moment for Derek to process that information, which Stiles understands because there can’t be much blood left in his head for higher brain function. “You—God, you can suck yourself off?”

Stiles can barely catch his breath before Derek pulls him up and starts kissing him. It’s wet and filthy, with clashing tongues and teeth, and Derek’s mouth tastes like cheap whiskey. It makes Stiles feel a little drunk, knees going week, hands fisting into Derek’s jacket so he doesn’t fall and make a complete and utter fool of himself. He’s doing so well too.

But Derek has him, literally. Strong hands curl around the backs of Stiles’ thighs, pull them wide so Derek can step forward and pick him up, lets him wrap his legs around Derek’s waist. The new position makes Stiles taller, looking down into Derek’s face. Stiles’ breath catches in his throat with the intimacy of the act. They stare at each other for a long moment, noses just barely brushing, before Stiles leans forward and kisses Derek. 

It’s the most chaste thing he’s ever done, not that he has all that much of experience, just a press of lips on lips and fingers curling into sensitive cloth-covered skin, but it sends heat spilling down Stiles’ spine. He ruts his hips against Derek’s stomach, can feel the hot length of Derek’s dick beneath him, rubbing against the seam of his jeans and he really wishes he’d had the foresight to take his pants off because he really wants to feel it there, catching against his entrance, teasing his hole until he’s pressed all the way in. Without his pants on, Stiles could come all over Derek’s shirt, or lift that up and paint Derek’s chest, instead of just coming in his pants. Like he just did.

Stiles lets his head fall back, half in embarrassment, half in relief, and feels Derek’s lips pressing kisses into his neck, biting bruises that will probably last a week if only because Stiles bruises easily, Derek’s tongue soothing away the ache of teeth in his skin.

Derek’s still hard beneath him, but he doesn’t move, just continues his attentions on Stiles’ neck. Stiles lets him for a few seconds longer before he unhooks his ankles and drops his feet back to the floor; Derek doesn’t let him go, just moves his hands up and over and around until he’s holding Stiles by the hips and is back to kissing him, slow and sweet and then hot and hard. Stiles grins into the kiss, rubs his cheek against Derek’s stubble. It’s a pleasant feel and Stiles doesn’t want to stop. But he has to.

He pulls away from Derek and sinks to his knees, mouths a line down Derek’s dick. Impossibly it feels harder than it did before. “Fuck my mouth,” he says, letting his tongue rest beneath the head of Derek’s dick. He’s still loose from his orgasm so it shouldn’t be too bad.

Derek’s hand’s find his hair, one going around to grip the back of his neck, the other curling around his jaw. Derek tests it first, pushes in once, twice, before picking up a rhythm. Stiles feels his throat open, his jaw slack, watches Derek lose control above him with every wild thrust. 

Stiles gasps when Derek pulls out, leaning heavily against the wall behind him, hand moving fast on his dick and aiming it at Stiles’ face. Obediently, Stiles opens his mouth and waits, tongue reaching for what he knows is coming. Sure enough, with a groaned, “God. Fuck. Stiles.” Derek is coming, leaving long white stripes across Stiles’ cheeks and nose, coating his tongue; he doesn’t swallow just yet, waits until Derek is done, slumped back and hand still, and then surges forward, once again taking the head of Derek’s dick into his mouth, sucking lightly until Derek is whimpering.

He swallows then, and pulls himself up from the floor. Derek opens his eyes and groans again, thumb running down Stiles’ cheek; it’s pulled away wet and Stiles sucks it into his mouth before he can think twice about it. Derek’s thumb tastes different than his dick, but he doesn’t mind it, just sucks a little harder before letting it go with a flourish of his tongue.

They continue until his face is clean, Derek’s eyes glazed in lust again, but with a quick glance down sees he’s not hard again, but still hanging out. Stiles presses messy lips against Derek’s before bending down, giving a quick kiss to Derek’s dick before tucking him back in and doing up his jeans.

“God, you’re mouth,” Derek mutters again, pulling Stiles into another mind-shattering kiss, and at this rate Stiles’ refractory period is going to be nonexistent. Stiles shifts and frowns.

“Ugh, I have to get out of these.”

“I’m in complete agreement.” Derek mindlessly nuzzles into Stiles’ shoulder. “The less clothes the better.”

Stiles laughs, but not in a mean way. “I’m not sure my dad would agree with you. Which is unfortunate, really.”

“You live with your dad?” Derek asks, adorably confused. Stiles thumbs the crease between his eyebrows.

Stiles hums an affirmative. “At least until I go away to college in the summer.” Stiles watches Derek’s face shut down and tries not to reel back at the shock of it. “Is that—I mean, I’ll be eighteen in like, two months. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Not that big of a deal?” Now Derek looks angry, eyes flashing in a way that makes Stiles want to start everything over again. But without pants, definitely without pants. “Stiles, you’re a minor! This could be considered statutory rape. Fuck!” Derek’s fist meets the stall door, makes the lock rattle ominously. “Have you even done this before?”

“Dude, Derek, chill.” Stiles wants to reach out, but he’s not sure that would do much good right now. “It was fully reciprocated and very much wanted, okay? If this were to happen again, repeatedly, and all the way, I would not be opposed to that. At all.” Derek doesn’t look like he’s okay with that. “And as far as firsts go? I’ve gone down on other guys, just a few, and a girl, but I’ve never had another person’s tongue in my mouth.”

Derek sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Stiles…” That is not a good sound.

“Well, okay, that’s a lie, I suppose, because there was that one time in seventh grade when we were playing spin the bottle and I kept landing on Scott. Tongues were required in that game. But we don’t talk about it. Because it was awkward and Scott and I are bros who draw the line at cuddling and full-bodied hugs and harmless, no-tongue-involved kissing. And he has a girlfriend he is very much devoted to.” But Derek doesn’t look like he’s going to change his mind. Stiles sighs heavily. “Look. It’s not statutory rape, okay? My dad’s the sheriff so I know what I’m talking about.”

Derek’s eyes go impossibly wide. “Your father’s the sheriff? Fuck! What the fuck, Stiles?”

Stiles disregards all the signs that tell him he shouldn’t touch Derek right now. Forcibly, he grabs Derek by the shoulders and pushes him back against the wall, stares at him until he stops growling. And growling, seriously? “Yes, my dad is the sheriff. But he is completely okay with everything I’m doing so long as I’m being safe. Because my safety is his top priority, okay? You didn’t hurt me, you didn’t force me, you didn’t do anything I wouldn’t want to do again. He is not going to shoot you, or haul you off to jail.”

Derek closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths through his nose, muttering a mantra of “fuck, fuck, fuck” every time he hits his head against the wall. Stiles doesn’t move, just stands there watching him, hoping this is something they’ll be doing again, but without the freak-out, because that’s kind of a mood killer. Finally, Derek stills and stands, face closed off, and gently removes Stiles hands from his shoulders with thick fingers around his wrists.

“I think it’s time you rejoin your friends.”

Stiles sighs sadly and kisses Derek one last time before he leaves the stall. By the times he’s rinsed his face – because despite their earlier clean-up, he could still feel the leftovers of Derek’s come itching his skin – Derek is long gone and Stiles is left with memories and a cooling mess in his underwear.

Silently, and with a lot less enthusiasm than before, Stiles walks out of the bathroom and sits between Danny and Scott and tries to remember what his mouth tastes like behind Derek and his cheap whiskey. The bartender looks over at him and shakes his head, moving over with a tumbler full of tinkling ice and amber liquid.

“One drink,” the bartender says with a sigh. “But only because you look like you could really use it.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says, and then spends the rest of the night nursing a drink that tastes like Derek.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on a second part, but don't hold you're breath because it took me way too long to get this one out. It's going to explain why Derek is acting like he is though, so there is that. But my focus is everywhere, and I'm working on a thousand things at once, and I really wish that was exaggeration.
> 
> Also I keep getting distracted by the Twitter feed in the bottom of my screen because apparently I have one of those now and I have no idea what to do with it.
> 
> Join me on Tumblr? http://effortlessandnonetooserious.tumblr.com/


End file.
